her plans, and if she didn’t, I apologize for not speaking to you first. I assure you that neither Will nor I have any interest in your daughter, and Will was fairly horrified by even pretending to flirt with a girl of her age.”
Mrs. Tanner looked back and forth between them. Will, amazingly, was still asleep. “Oh,” she said, as if recognition were dawning. “I see. Well. I hadn’t figured either of you gentleman to be—well, I suppose it takes all kinds, and I do beg your pardon—”
“I beg your pardon, madam,” Martin said. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. What I mean to say is that neither Mr. Sedgwick nor I have any interest in sixteen-year-old girls. Please curtail your wilder flights of conjecture. Be gone with you.”
He had been harsh, he knew that. In that high-handed speech, he heard the echoes of his father’s voice. And Mrs. Tanner hadn’t even been insinuating any insult or threats of exposure. But his blood boiled at the idea of any harm coming to Will—not an insult, not a twisted bit of gossip, not a nasty rumor. The very idea made Martin want to salt the earth and burn the fields.
It was not, he realized, his best quality. It was a vindictiveness and ruthlessness that suggested he might have more in common with his father than a superficial resemblance. With a pang, he remembered the Cumberland tenants he had squeezed and used in order to raise money; that, too, had been for Will.
Mrs. Tanner was staring at him with wide eyes and Martin scrambled for something civil to say. “I apologize. I’m a bear when I wake up. Please tell Daisy she can have the morning to herself, thank you.” Without replying, the woman backed out of the door.
“Back to sleep,” Will mumbled, tugging Martin back to the mattress. Martin, idiot that he was, let himself be dragged down and tucked against Will’s warm body, even though he knew he didn’t deserve it.
Chapter Eight
Martin was simultaneously pleased and dismayed to discover that building a pig enclosure was the sort of work that required Will to take off his coat and roll up his sleeves. He had a lamentable weakness for Will’s forearms, quite possibly a weakness for any part of Will’s body that he chose to uncover.
“Can’t put that rail up so high,” Daisy said. She too had her sleeves rolled up, which explained why the two sons from a neighboring farm had come to help build the pen, and why Martin could therefore lounge on an overturned barrel rather than actually participate in any of the manual labor. “The piglets are still too little, and they’ll scramble out underneath it.”
Much discussion ensued, and Will proceeded to notch the wooden rail precisely where Daisy had indicated. Daisy was a font of wisdom when it came to rural living. Martin hadn’t the faintest idea what she and her mother were talking about half the time, but it was clear that they managed to make do with a couple of animals and a talent for poaching. Daisy never mentioned any father, and Martin was now fully convinced that the late Mr. Tanner was an entirely fictive entity, designed to give Mrs. Tanner a scrap of respectability.
Will approached, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Martin got to his feet and handed him the flask of ale. Through the damp and threadbare fabric of Will’s shirt, Martin could see the faint shadow of the birds that were inked on his arm. He let himself look for a moment before dragging his gaze away.
“I understand the general principle of penning pigs,” Martin said. “But how does it apply to animals who can fly?”
“With chickens and ducks, there’s a lot of optimism involved on all sides,” Will said. “And also shoving them all into a henhouse at night. Did you know, they build hog pens differently here than they do in the north?”
Martin knew nothing of the sort and could think of few topics less fascinating, but listening to Will go on was a treat in itself. “Tell me more about your pigsties, William.”
Will elbowed him. “The pig enclosure at the Grange was made of stone. There was even a little house at one end, where the pigs could get out of the sun.”
“I don’t remember you having pigs.”
“I believe one of my father’s guests let them out after reading too much Rousseau. But we did have pigs when I